


great god honey

by DefineNormal



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, IT'S NOT MY FAULT, No Angst, Teasing, a bit of jack torture, all ridiculous, but the good kind, dirty music, earworms, happy birthday miri, he likes it, it's everything you never wanted, possibly stolen prompt, somehow...feelings?, song prompt, unintended fictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25502281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefineNormal/pseuds/DefineNormal
Summary: Do you ever get a song stuck in your head? And then in the days that follow it seems like *everybody else* has that song stuck in their head too? Yeah. So does Jack.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	great god honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [batard_loaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batard_loaf/gifts).



> I started this two months ago basically as a dare. It was never intended to be a birthday gift but if I didn't give myself a deadline, it would languish in my google docs forever. This prompt might have been stolen - I just got a link to the song and an "imagine if". 
> 
> Unedited because I'm a heathen.

The grand St Kilda house was not quite home to Jack (yet), but he was beginning to feel less of an interloper. He had a favorite chair, in which he preferred to read the paper. The seat to the left of Phryne at the dining room table was generally accepted by all to be his. He had a favorite teacup, a drawer in the bureau, a say in the dinner menu. All in all, he was becoming a rather more common fixture in 221B. 

The boudoir, however, no matter how many times he had visited (and stayed), still seemed more Phryne’s sanctuary. When left to his own devices he usually kept to the first floor, puttering and reading. On this particular day, Jack was graced with an unexpected early afternoon. Phryne was committed to a long-planned luncheon with her Aunt and the hospital board, so Jack had a rare unsupervised afternoon at Wardlow. 

Glancing at the clock he realized she was due to return any minute, and a meal with her Aunt almost always required a vent to blow off steam. Jack set about fixing them both a drink, studiously not thinking about the easy familiarity of the action.

They had come so far together since that fateful night in the Negev. It would be a mistake to think of Phryne as anything resembling domesticated. He on the other hand…

He poured them each a finger of whiskey and decided a little music would not be amiss.

The crate beside the gramophone held a variety of records, most of whom Jack had never heard. Their tastes occasionally ran parallel but occasionally veered sharply. Therefore there was always a risk involved in choosing something from her vast, eclectic collection. He paused on “Let’s Misbehave”, chewing back a tiny smile, then continued to thumb through. A few of the records were unlabeled and Jack chose one at random. He set the needle and a lively piano introduction filled the room. It was a pleasant surprise.

He had managed only a few steps back to his seat when the lyrics began. 

Fortunately, he had not yet taken a drink of his whiskey, for surely it would have exited (painfully) through his nose.

_ I got nipples on my titties _

_ Big as the end of my thumb _

_ I got something between my legs _

_ I’ll make a dead man come _

Ice and fire raced over his skin, leaving a sheen of sweat in their wake, before bolting down his spine. Of course Phryne would have such a record easily accessible in her parlor, of all places. He wondered, vaguely, if he was meant to find it. 

_ Oh, daddy, baby won’t you shave ‘em dry _

_ Want you to grind me baby, grind me until I cry. _

He was completely suspended in motion, his whiskey halfway to his lips, midstep of crossing the room. He wasn’t sure what to do first, although it seemed a bit of liquid courage was in order regardless. He knocked back the drink and let the burn loosen him enough to move.

_ Say I fucked all night and all the night before baby _

_ And i feel just like I wanna fuck some more _

In two long strides he was in front of the gramophone, staring at the spinning record, torn between listening further or tossing the blasted thing across the room. A year previous - even a mere handful of months - he would have indulged the latter. And yet... his fingers gripped the table, knuckles whitening under the strain of his indecision.

Phryne had certainly broadened his horizons, though he wasn’t exactly a prude before her. Still, the recording had to break at least three different decency laws and Mr Butler wasn’t but two rooms away.

His hand hovered over the needle when Phryne’s voice rumbled in his ear, in time with the record.

“Oh Great God daddy. Grind me honey and shave me dry.”

Her warm breath gusted over the sensitive shell of his ear and she was close enough that her breasts pressed into his back. Whether the lyrics or the feral heat of her was the culprit, he’d never know, but gooseflesh bloomed across his skin. Phryne’s hands landed on his hips and her forehead pressed into his back. He could feel her shuddering, mostly likely with barely contained laughter.

“Jesus, Phryne…” He trailed off and her fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers, holding him steady. The gramophone still wailed and Phryne hummed along, curling her fingers into fists and fitting herself tighter to his back. She must have balanced up on her tiptoes because her lips were dangerously close to his ear as she whispered

_ Now if fuckin’ was the thing that would take me to heaven _

_ I’d be fuckin’ in the studio until the clock strike eleven. _

The scratch of the needle across the record broke the moment and Phryne gasped.

“Jack, that’s a very limited edition.” She had the gall to sound affronted.

“It’s contraband is what it is,” He choked out. “Where...how...why?”

“A friend of a friend. And why not?”

“It’s indecent.”

She lowered her lashes before drawing her gaze back up over him. The familiar, fiery visual caress closed his throat. “So are a great many things you’ve never objected to before.”

He had no answer for that. Mortification still burned at his skin and he knew he was flushed. He felt caught out, not just listening to a salacious record but making himself comfortable enough in her home to be discovered in the first place. Phryne didn’t seem phased by either so he turned and drew his arms around her waist, hoping to still any further conversation.

She allowed him to kiss her and walk her back to the chaise, eerily passive in his embrace. She allowed him to distract her with wandering hands. She was almost docile as he nipped along her jaw, drew his tongue over his pulse and brushed his thumb just below the swell of her breast. Her only response was to sigh and press her throat closer to his wandering mouth, tunneling her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. She stayed mostly silent but for a few gentle moans and sighs. Arousal, joy, desire. She did not make him guess at her pleasure, and when he pushed her blouse from her shoulders she was  _ very _ pleased.

They tumbled to the chaise, a tangle of limbs, and Phryne straddled Jack’s hips, gazing down at him with a gentle expression he was beginning to identify but still too terrified to name. 

When she dropped her head and shimmied down his body, his mind blanked.

He lost time.

Later, she rose over him to settle against his chest. She was still half-dressed in the prim suit she’d worn to visit her aunt and the mildly conservative cut was offset by the predatory gleam in her eyes. Jack was still boneless and wrung out so she sipped at his lips and her thumbs pressed into the hollows of his cheeks, the pressure just shy of painful. Her smile was feral, and in spite of his exhaustion, his toes curled.

He knew that look.

“You know I’ll never let you forget this.”

Oh, he did.

* * *

The first time it happened, they were tucked up cozily in the parlor with after dinner drinks. The house was quiet, Jane retired upstairs, Dot returned to her home and Mr Butler far off in the kitchen cleaning up. Phryne rested lazily against Jack’s side, her feet curled beneath her, fancy shoes abandoned on the floor, while she thumbed through a magazine. Jack held a novel loosely in one hand and ran the fingers of his other over Phryne’s bare arm. He attempted to read but struggled with comprehension. He was too relaxed, too comfortable, so instead he focused on swirling the pads of his fingers across Phryne’s skin.

He felt more than heard her rumble of approval and she tossed the magazine in the direction of the table before turning in his arms. 

Belatedly he recognized the tune she hummed. She flashed her dangerously blue eyes at him with a twinking, lecherous smile.

He watched her lips form the filthy words, even as his mind ground to a halt, time scratching like the record itself. “ _ Say I fucked all night and all the night before baby And i feel just like I wanna-- _ ”

He didn’t let her finish the verse.

* * *

Less than a week later, they drove home from a late night at a ghastly dinner with Prudence. There’d been too much chatter, not enough champagne, and Jack was the topic of much mumbled speculation and appraisal. He wasn’t ashamed of his working class position in the Victorian Constabulary - he fought too hard to be anything but proud of his accomplishments - but the lingering looks and barely concealed skepticism were tiring. Even Phryne, who could not usually be bothered with any opinion besides her own, seemed unusually affected by it. He was not surprised to find that she’d gotten them free relatively early; in fact, he was instead terribly grateful and intended to show her just how much when they arrived home. He held Phryne’s hand in his lap, her thumb brushing gently as she stared at the window.

She turned to smile at him, her expression calm, the last vestiges of irritation eased by his nearness and the blessed quiet of the car.

When she returned her gaze to the passing scenery, Jack caught just the edge of mischief in the twitch of her lips.

The tune reached his ears and he squeezed her hand in silent plea. 

She hummed louder.

* * *

At a crime scene, three days later, as they gathered to leave. Jack rattled off a list of instructions which Collins jotted eagerly. Phryne stood several feet away, ostensibly checking over the details of the scene. 

Her gaze wandered lazily and she took a few more steps away, as if to look at a footprint. When Jack reached her to fetch her back to the car, she was grinning madly.

And humming.

* * *

It might have lost its amusement at some point, the wretched song and it’s sinful melody, if it had only been Phryne. A pleasant, indecent game between them.

But the way these things work, tunes worm their way into the heads of others, with no recollection when or how they picked up the melody. 

Jack choked on a cheese scone when Dot passed him in the dining room, humming the horribly familiar tune.

Phryne had to excuse herself.

* * *

“Collins, what are you humming?”

The young man looked up quickly, both abashed and amused.

“I...I don’t know, sir.”

* * *

Mr Butler, dusting. 

The crack of Jack’s glass hitting the sideboard like a gunshot.

Phryne’s gleeful laughter.

* * *

“It’s not funny.” He didn’t  _ want _ to sound petulant but oh,  _ he did _ . 

She was perched on his lap, gloriously nude, and pleased. Tears, actual tears of mirth, rolled down her flushed cheeks. He had no idea why it still amused her to see him so completely discomfited, but it did. He had hoped they were beyond their assigned roles of staid detective inspector and terrible influence socialite.

“Oh, but darling, it is so very funny.” Phryne clasped her fingers over her lips, attempting to stifle the keening giggle.

He’d caught Jane, young impressionable Jane, mindlessly humming the tune everyone seemed to know but nobody could identify. It was intolerable. Upon questioning that, he would later admit, was closer to an interrogation than a friendly query, she could not pinpoint where or how she’d heard the song. She’d blinked wide blue eyes at him and told him she had no idea of the words. 

He believed her. 

“Do you enjoy tormenting me?” Jack asked, although of course the question was entirely rhetorical. With the cat-and-mouse portion of their relationship firmly in the rearview, with him staying at Wardlow more often than he returned to his bungalow, it was obvious that Phryne sought some other way to maintain the delicious tension between them.

For Jack, he would never get his fill of having her whenever he wanted her, and had no need to artificially infuse their day with aborted desire and stifled yearning. They’d spent time enough in torment- or perhaps it was just him - there was no use for it now. He had worried, in the beginning, when the days at sea stretched before them, that she would become bored without the thrill of the hunt. And perhaps she was, but she had apparently not tired of  _ him _ . So she concocted ways to increase the tension for both of them, usually to a satisfying conclusion. But never had he expected the other members of the household to become unwitting participants in their play. 

“Does it really bother you?” She asked, wiping at her cheeks, the mildest furrow of concern creasing her brow. 

“No. Yes.” There was something intoxicating about sharing secrets with Phryne. She, who’s life was essentially an open book, carefully guarded the details their as-of-yet undefined relationship. She remained wildly inappropriate and flirted with him (and others) outrageously, but she was pleased to be seen on his arm at various functions. She respected Jack’s need for privacy and apparently shared in his desire to make as few waves as possible so Russell Street wasn’t inclined to intervene. They behaved as they always had, neither interested in confirming or denying any rumors that might abound. To have her toy with him in public with something so salacious and private between them - it was equally mortifying and stirring.

He was beyond the age of making a fool of himself in public - he had enough control over his body that her mild game would not cause any lasting harm. It was just…

“I enjoy you, Jack.” She said it plainly, as unbothered by the admission as she was by her unclothed body. It was a statement of fact, a fact that could still bewilder him if he spent to long on it. “I enjoy us.”

His confusion must have been plain on her face because, after gently bumping his forehead with hers, she rocked back to explain.

“I’ve experienced the uninhibited Jack Robinson. I like to think he is mine, and mine alone. The people we are in here,” She gestured towards the untidy boudoir, their scattered clothing mingled casually. “Belong only to us.”

She had confided to him early on, under the unyielding darkness of a desert night, that she felt at a slight disadvantage. He, having been married to Rosie, knew far better than she how to navigate the intricacies of a relationship, when her only experiences were at best unpleasant. She was bound to make errors, she’d said, and hoped that he would recognize them as such and not mistake them for subtle sabotage. She would, she promised, tell him if she had any misgivings about the direction they were headed. But she required the same of him. After months of coded conversation and oblique repartee, her frank words were comforting. They were neither of them particularly gifted at speaking plainly, both too well-trained in the art of protecting their tender underbellies. But Jack trusted that at the end of the day, Phryne would always tell him the truth.

She paused and brushed the backs of her fingers across his chest, her head tilting to and fro as she weighed the words before speaking. Her indecisiveness drew an icy finger of fear along his spine and he shivered. Mistaking it for arousal, Phryne stilled her hand and offered an apologetic smile. Jack caught her fingers with his and squeezed a mild encouragement. 

“Out of necessity, or cowardice, we have arranged ourselves into two separate partnerships, but I’ve never been particularly good at not mixing business with pleasure.” She gave a little shrug, her lopsided smile not quite as unfettered as usual. “I didn’t think it would be quite this difficult.”

Jack knew how much such a confession would cost her, his stubbornly unaffected, frustratingly pragmatic lover. It was a sentiment he could understand. More than a few times since they’d been home, he had stood at a crime scene and felt the familiar tug of longing as he watched her work in his periphery. It was only after he caught himself slipping towards melancholy that he remembered he did not have to pine from afar anymore. That they had finally (god,  _ finally _ ) cleared the remaining hurdles and bridged the gap. Each realization was a clear bell-ring of relief that reverberated through him and he had to stop himself from reaching for her to assure himself of their connection.

She, too, seemed to be caught in the twilight of their shifting relationship. Not quite living in the bright of day, not quite relegated to the dark of night. 

Phryne was never one to maintain a delicate balance. She approached her problems with all the delicacy of a bull in a china shop, never having quite mastered the art of subtlety.

Unable to let her rare vulnerability go unacknowledged, Jack thought it only fair that he offer one of his own. If she struggled with being too much, he struggled with the notion of being not enough. They would eventually, he knew, meet in the middle. 

Cupping his palms on the gentle swell of her hips bones he drew her forward until she was nestled intimately to his front. He let his fingers scale over the ridges of her spine before flattening against her shoulder blades and drawing her upper body close as well. Closing his eyes, he husked out the words into her throat before sinking his teeth into the sensitive tendon behind her ear. 

_ “Say I fucked all night and all the night before baby” _

Her huff of laughter strangled into a moan as he tipped them sideways, rolling until he covered her completely. Her eyes sparkled at him, his mischievous grin igniting the roll of her hips against his. He stayed her with a palm on her thigh and continued speaking into the skin of her throat.

_ “And i feel just like I wanna fuck some more” _

He slid lower until her nipple teased his lips. She tried to press into him but he dodged his head and pressed his cheek to her ribs. He rumbled directly into her navel.

_ “Oh, grind me honey” _

“Trying.” She rasped, her fingers threaded in his hair tugged and pushed, trying to guide him into position between her thighs. For form’s sake, he resisted, and she nearly keened in frustration.

He didn’t know the rest of the words - hadn’t listened far enough into the song - so he improvised. 

When he hummed the tune against the slick skin of her inner thigh, the hand in his hair became painful.

"My oath, Jack, if you don't stop singing about it and actually  _ do  _ something...!"

His nose brushed the curls at the apex of her thighs.

Perhaps. 

Perhaps the song wasn’t all bad.

“Please,” she whispered. 

And Jack obliged.

* * *

If any of the residents and close acquaintances of the Detective Inspector and Honourable Miss ever did identify the source of the relentless melody, they never admitted it.

Out of an abundance of uncharacteristic caution, Phryne moved the record to her boudoir at roughly the same time a second gramophone appeared there as well.

If her collection of contraband records only continued to grow… well. 

Things happen.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, sweet pea. I'm sorry it's in quarantine. I'm sorry this is your gift. MWAH.
> 
> PS - you accidentally wrote a line of this. thanks.


End file.
